


Honey, I’m Finally Home

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: The World That We Design [2]
Category: Duran Duran
Genre: 1945, Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Family Planning, M/M, Reconciliation, Soldiers, Torn Apart, War is over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: It’s finally happened. They’ve won the war, but love is another battle entirely.Second World War/Soldier AU
Relationships: John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: The World That We Design [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749097
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Honey, I’m Finally Home

_May 8th, 1945._

_Hollywood, Birmingham._  
  


**_My dear friends, this is your hour._ **

Clinging carefully to the Prime Minister’s every joyous word, he was on his knees, bawling, overcome with elation. Jubilation was running from each and every pore.

Getting back up proved hard, he swept his fallen fringe from his face and let that hand immediately fall to his bulging stomach, peeking out from a once slick suit. He hugged the radio, giggling over realising what he had just done, branded himself a fool before running (as fast as one could, with the seventh month mark vastly approaching) up the staircase and into the bedroom.

**_This is not victory of a party or of any class._ **

He had lain solitary for near eight months, less than most. Endless nights had dragged on without mercy, he had cried himself to sleep without any liquid left in his body. He had been battered and bruised, waiting for his butterfly to escape the killing jar, had stained endless bland pillow cases with the daring red lipstick and thick eyeliner that coated his chocolate browns. He had thrashed about the bed, clutching aimlessly at the side of the bed he couldn’t bare to sleep on, couldn’t bare the thought of who should’ve been there.

Every night he could smell him, was haunted by the notion of him never returning. Of laying solitary for the rest of his days. Of losing it all, house crumbling all around him as they were hit: all prized possessions damaged; his livelihood ripped from him at the seams.

Bombed a final time, perhaps the next one would’ve been the last one.

But now, it’s over. There had been no word of _his_ end, other than now: the end.

**_It’s a victory of the Great British nation as a whole._ **

****

He pawed through his sacred tin box, fingers trailing over each scrape and tattered edge. Tears streaming, hands quivering, a whole new wave of raw emotion thrust him over the edge as he finally caught sight of his prize.

**_We were the first, in this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny._ **

****

It was sacred, faded and worn out. He couldn’t count the times his finger tips had caressed the small photograph, couldn’t even begin to express what it meant to him. Even with its colour lost and disfiguration, it could never distort the wonderful smile of the man captured.

Nor could it ruin his dashing black uniform, always perfectly pressed, with brass buttons that glistened in the light. His cap and badges, badges turn medals, a crisp collar and tie.

**_After a while we were left all alone against the most tremendous military power that has been seen._ **

****

Realising that the grammar phone was still ringing throughout the small house, he sprinted (again, as fast as one could with that special date vastly approaching) back down the wooden steps; heels clanking on each one, before falling back down beside it: photographs, deployments, ration cards and newspaper cuttings in hand.

He fell back to the floor, slumping over the small table; thoroughly lost amongst the memorabilia that painted the carpet.

**_Did anyone want to give in?_ **

“ _No_ ,” his voice was hoarse, choked off by his tears.

**_Were we downhearted?_ **

“ _No_ ,” he insisted.

The Prime Minister’s words were all that he could hear, hugging the photographs wearing all his heart on a tattered, rumpled sleeve. He watched with interest as his tears streamed down his puffy cheek, dripping onto his beloved, adding a new shine to the glimmer in his darkened eyes. His dashing smile. His beautiful hair, cut neat and tucked away even neater beneath the cap.

“Where are you now, my luv, right when it’s _safe_ for us?”

He had lain solitary for near eight months and saved his prayers for any divinity that would listen, whoever was left.

“When’s there’s a _place_ for us.”

He poorly sang to himself, hands wrapping themselves around the podgy belly that grew and grew: the constant reminder that he was never truly alone.

“Your _darling_ needs you too, not only your country and moral duty.”

He prayed tirelessly, that his beloved would return in time; to watch the life they had created enter a world torn apart by heartless, ruthless war.

But now, a world of peace.

“ _Do not despair, do not yield to violence and tyranny, march straightforward and die if need be-unconquered_.”

Comical, brash and comical, he threw his head up; powder and lipstick thoroughly ruined, as his gaze widened and jaw grew slack.

He stuttered, stumbled, his heartbreak skipped on the track. He watched, now slowly back to standing, eyes clouded by the tears. He could see him, he could feel him, he was hurtling towards him: crying oceans.

He had been singing his lonesome, cruel blue.

“Jo- _John_.” It came out in a mere breath, barely audible.

Now he would be singing with his joyous, effervescent silver.

John silenced him with his lips, they were desperate, salty and desperate. He latched his arms around him, breaking away and sobbing uncontrollably into his neck. John stained his prized uniform, clinging to the treasured medals the pilot wore. He ran his fingertips over the familiar badges, the alien patches, the _Royal Air Force_ insignia that his beloved wore, that had his stomach in knots, with pride.

“John, honey, I’m.. I,”

“Yes,” he broke away from the secure hold, bottom lip trembling.

“I.. I- I am.”

“Yes?”

Their lips collided again; the kiss was deep and full of longing, full of warmth and reassurance.

This was it. It’s _over_.

Their hands were running all over their skin, into John’s auburn hair as he came crumbling down into that firm grip.

They can be together again, as a family. _Forever_.

“Honey,” the voice was broken, disjointed, “I’m.. I’m _finally_ home.”

“Forever this time?” John squeaked.

He was met by another dashing beam, teary eyes and flushed cheeks. Then, his string of hot tears were being kissed away; by a set of sweet lips in a subtle brush atop the apples of his damp cheeks.

John, shaking uncontrollably, caught hold of that calloused hand and bought it forward with his delicate touch. Together they palmed his stomach, feeling the beat of their tap dancer twirling inside of him. A new life, born into a world of peace of harmony.

It’s over. The war is over.

“Oh,” sniffling, John felt a kick, his head was dizzy and he fumbled over his tongue. “My, she.. she’s missed you, _daddy_.”

He didn’t let his beloved go, together they fell to the sofa; surrounded by his duffel bags and the abandoned grammar phone.

“My beloved, my _Roger.”_

Their lips locked in another embrace, more tender and thorough this time. John refamiliarised himself with Roger’s touch, his taste and his feel: moulding his body into that of the pilot. His hands wouldn’t stop their tremble, not until Roger enrapt his own fingers around John’s sweaty palms and bought them back to his stomach: intent on feeling the bass to their beat throb within him.

“You, you won’t… you know,” he stammered, wiping at his eyes and the makeup he had smeared, “ _leave_ me again, right?”

“ _Never_.”

Smiling, beaming bright, John threw himself into another precious hug. So tight, he couldn’t tell where one Taylor began and where the other one ended. Only separated by the ‘wall’ that was their child, John knew he wasn’t letting Roger go again. Ever.

Croaking, John muttered into his neck: “I love you, so much, my beloved.”

“I love you too, my darling.”

For the first time since he had been left, having bid another farewell as the air raid sirens blasted with their shrill sound and his beloved was ripped from his sight, he realised that there would be no more. No more missions, fly by’s, bombing and catastrophe. No more deaths, no more rationing and hardship.

Together, clutching tight to his love, John finally could sleep in peace. He would never be left alone, forbidden to his endless lonesome nightmare, again.

It was Victory for Europe. Victory for both John and Roger.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t help myself. Here is a moodboard I made for this little AU and it features the photograph of Roger that helped to inspire this fighter pilot story.
> 
> https://madamepinkvelvet.tumblr.com/post/617568179653361664/honey-im-home-johnroger-this-is-the-first-of


End file.
